


All This and Heaven Too

by MonstrousRegiment



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Erik in a kilt, M/M, This was supposed to be PWP, abuse of ALL things Irish, abuse of Irish slang and general Irish folklore, didn't happen, kilt, maybe it would be more accurate if I said, that, this is Synekdokee's fault.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/pseuds/MonstrousRegiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ireland, June 1757. </p>
<p>
  <i>“Shall we be lovers, then?” he asked quite courteously, as though they were discussing a stroll in the park. “Or are ye scared?” he put so much emphasis on the last word that it sounded almost like ‘scairt’.</i>
</p>
<p>(aka kilt!Erik porn that grew a plot)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All This and Heaven Too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Synekdokee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/gifts).



> Title taken from Florence+The Machine because... I suck at titles. 
> 
> Sorry.

Charles’s father had been a Jacobite traitor, discovered and promptly murdered in 1745. The word was murdered because there had been no trial. Without a trial no verdict had been given, which meant that someone putting a bullet through Brain Xavier’s chest had not been, in fact, a government-sanctioned execution, but rather a heinous crime committed against a gentleman, shrouded in the dark of a moonless night and carried out quietly in the sprawling gardens of his own home. 

None in society had been the wiser of his crimes, and the Seventh Earl of Westchester had passed on his title, unmarred, untainted, to the Eight, his young and only son Charles, whom thereupon found himself as the new head of a family that now only consisted of him and his grief-stricken mother. 

Sharon Xavier was a lot of things, foremost of which was an alcoholic, but she came from a good family with a great ancient name and a fortune at her disposal, so finding herself a husband was a matter of months. Charles had grown up resenting this facility of marriage, which he believed reflected his mother’s lack of actual love for his father, but now he was an older man and much the wiser. 

Sharon had re-married seeking the protection of a powerful husband for herself and her young son. Perhaps a sharper woman might have included her son in this scheming, as Charles was anything but an idiot, but Sharon had been terrified and desperate to keep Charles safe and out of harm’s way, be it physical or emotional. 

This had largely failed. She should have chosen her husband better. Although, fair enough, Marko _was_ powerful. Powerful enough, in the end, to tease out the truth from the tangle of lies and concealment; Brian Xavier had been no traitor, but rather falsely accused. 

Someone had murdered Brian Xavier, and Charles had been intent on finding out who, and at long last years of cautious, quiet investigations had yielded a name. 

Unfortunately this revelation had not come with an address, but rather a vague sense of direction and whereabouts. Stubborn and determined to obtain his justice, Charles had nevertheless embarked upon the hunt, and now this was his current situation. 

Ireland, June 1757. 

Lavish vegetation in dazzling vivid green rose all around them, sprawling across undulating hills crowned by dense forests. It was an odd sunny day and a heat unlike any Charles had ever known had evaporated the water always present in the grass, turning it from dew to a heavy, tiring humidity that hung in the air like the hot breath of a fatigued animal. The simple act of breathing made sweat roll down the groove of Charles’ spine, sitting where he was beneath the kind shade of a tree. 

In front and all around him the Irish highwaymen in whose unlikely company he had been for the last five months trained in the fine art of swordsmanship. 

Charles could not in all honesty call it fencing. As he knew it fencing was an act of gentlemanly honor regulated and kept bound by rules of engagement. This was Ireland, however, and these men were of the belief that rules were something vague and somewhat indescribable, like an odd quirk that possessed the kind of heart in foreign lands. Certainly they felt no inclination towards any such affectation. 

In a nod towards the heat they had shed their shirts, and were fighting now only in their kilts, long wicked swords gleaming in the sunlight as surely as their sweat-slicked skin. They were all big men—a requirement, Charles supposed, of a hard life unforgiving to the weak—and all but one were sunburnt and freckled-splattered. The other must be quite new to his occupation, Charles supposed, as he seemed surprised when he was attacked without any sort of warning and unceremoniously dropped to the grass, wheezing through what Charles dispassionately believed to be a broken nose. Well, he’d learn. 

He’d originally come into contact with these men because he had reasons to believe their leader knew the location of one Sebastian Shaw—erstwhile Jacobite, traitor to the English Crown, scholar and soldier, and murderer of Brian Xavier. 

By the time he’d figured out the error in the chain of information that had led him to this place, he was too far from home and had come too long a way to turn tail and start again. 

He’d been told Erik Lehnsherr knew where to find Sebastian Shaw. In fact, Erik Lehnsherr was looking for Sebastian Shaw, and was as ignorant of his current location as Charles and everyone else he’d asked. Erik had his own vendetta against Shaw—it seemed more and more like everyone in the islands did. Shaw must have been a very busy man, once upon a time. 

Now he was gone, faded into the ether. Somewhere in Ireland, Erik knew, but Ireland was a big island and a chaotic one, where acquiring any sort of covert information was as much a hardship as staying dry outdoors. 

So. Five months gone and Charles was waiting here, with Erik and his band of highwaymen, sharing in their lives, partaking in their meals and sleeping amongst their cloaked-covered forms, taking his share of watches, shooting his share of game for the fire. 

He was teaching one of them to read, too. 

Charles had with him a copy of Virgil, which he carried at all times. He had it now on his lap, open on a page which he hadn’t turned in hours. Even reading seemed to expend too much effort on this heat, and there were better things to do, much better entertainment easily provided. 

The men trained shirtless in the sun, sweat-soaked, moving like graceless dancers with deadly metal singing loudly in their hands. 

The Englishman’s eyes found Erik unequivocally, him the tallest of the bunch, copper-headed and fair-skinned despite the tan, a smattering of sun-born freckles along his strong shoulders and back. The sun caught on the bristles of his beard, gold and red. An elegantly built man; long boned and covered with flat, firm muscle, delicate skin covered in little scars, testament of a harsh life. The strong boney wrists and broad powerful hands, fingers calloused by hard work and the wire-covered grip of his sword—a heavy, expensive sword of impeccable quality, relic of a father long ago murdered. By Shaw, perhaps? Charles had never asked. 

Whatever else he might be, Erik was the product of evident high class. Well educated, eloquent and sharp, gifted with a quick mind and pleasant wit, blessed with a dry, wry sense of humor. A criminal quite against his own will, circumstances had pushed him towards these hills, where he made his men survive by his sheer force of will, a force of nature all unto himself. 

Charles knew the type of sword—a Scottish claymore sword, about three quarters Erik’s height, with a hilt comfortable for two hands and a deadly gleam to its well-sharpened blade. 

It was the heaviest sword Charles had ever seen, certainly the heaviest in presence that day, and yet Erik was the most graceful of the lot, as if the sword were but an extension of his own self, yet another bone, just more of his flesh and blood. 

The sword allowed him a greater reach than everyone else, so Erik trained alone. He was practicing movements, keeping his body familiarized with the blade—though why he should ever think his body would forget was beyond Charles. He handled the heavy sword easily, a gliding motion of fascinating fluidity. He’d tried once to explain to Charles the feeling of it. 

_You let it move itself, handle its own weight_ , he’d said, laying the sword carefully across Charles’ thighs, a lethal lovely object baptized in the blood of many men. _And only nudge it along, ye ken? It’s got a life all of its own, the blade. Ye only give it orders._

Charles had to admit the sword looked alive, then glinting in the sun, catching flashes of light like falling stars, bright and brief. 

He watched the play of muscles beneath Erik’s tanned skin. The swung started in Erik’s flank, a tensing of the muscles criss-crossed along the ribs, climbing through the flat belly abdominals as the torso twisted in motion, crawling to the smooth sweep of muscle on his shoulders, down the hard biceps to the slender, masculine forearms, transference of weight transmuted into strength. The mechanical alchemy of mass in action, creating power from inertia. 

The sword described a wide arc, from right to left and then dipped down and just as easily went up, stabbing the sky. Charles watched with alarm as Erik made the blade move sharply, at an angle, nudging the edge of the hilt up and away from himself so the point of the blade twirled violently down and sank, quivering, into the grass. 

Erik stood with his back to Charles, panting harshly. Sweat trailed down his long spine, catching against the raised surface of scars, old and new. 

Finally he turned around and looked at Charles, blue eyes barrowed in the glare of the sun, hostile and wary like a leopard’s. This isn’t because he resents Charles’ presence or any such thing, but rather because hostility and wariness are the bases of Erik’s continued survival and as such difficult to shake, even in the relative peace of the lonely Irish wilderness. 

He moved like a jungle cat, fierce and sweat-soaked and flushed with exertion, and bounded exuberantly over to Charles, stopping on front of him, standing as he often did—feet wide apart, spine straight, shoulders braced for violence, whereupon he demanded, 

“Water?”

Charles grabbed the waterskin at his side and tossed it over. Erik caught it deftly, uncorked it and took a long, luxurious swallow, the column of his throat bared and moving. Charles shifted, uncomfortable. There was no breeze to move Erik’s kilt, an Irish tartan of green and grey and white, so it hung limp around his knees, unmoving. Charles couldn’t help but notice that, as it often did, the workout had aroused Erik. Excitement of battle is, at the core, very much alike excitement of the sexual variety. 

It wasn’t as bad as it had been at other times. When he actually used his small sword to train against his fellow Irishmen, Erik more than once got as hard as iron, and was obliged to excuse himself to relieve residual tension. Charles dutifully tried not to think of it, although the offer of assistance had nearly spilled from his lips more than once. 

Erik took the waterskin from his lips, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He eyed Charles, eyes dark and amused. 

“Certain you shan’t like to train a bit?” 

Charles smiled wryly. “I’m quite useless with a sword, as you well know.” 

The Irishman smiled suddenly, a slash of teeth on his freckled face, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked quite a different man, smiling. 

“Aye, quite,” he said, remembering the one lesson he had volunteered to Charles, and the bruise sin which it had resulted—for the Englishman, of course. Erik moved like an eel on water. “Yet ye have other qualities, I’m sure.” 

Charles gave him a look. “Not completely irrelevant, I hope.” 

Erik returns to look to him, with interests. “We’ll find some use for ye yet. You’re a light fella—I could use ye as a club.” 

“I shall endeavor to remain stiff for the duration,” Charles said dryly. 

Erik’s eyes flashed. “Aye,” he murmured, long fingers skillfully corking the waterskin. “That should please me.”

Charles felt heat rise from his chest, like a wave, hot blood flushing his cheeks. Damn his complexion. 

 

Erik’s mouth curled up, sardonic. 

“Speaking of valuable skills,” he said, arching his brows. “Ishmael stole himself some documents. Shall we take a look? I’m done training for the day.” 

Charles rose at once, interested. 

“Yes, of course. What sort of documents?”

Erik rose a shoulder in a brief and graceful shrug, turning away to snatch his shirt up from the grass. He didn’t pull it on, though, simply carrying it in his hand. It wouldn’t do to down it while covered in sweat, Charles supposed, as he unobtrusively studied the movement of muscles in the man’s long back. He caught the swift exchange of looks from Erik to his second-in-command, Ioain, but could not divine the message delivered. These men had known each other for years and could communicate with one another by soft grunts and subtle hand gestures, the flickering of eyes, the tick of the corner of a mouth. Charles couldn’t hope to understand, nor had bothered to try. 

They had taken temporary refuge in an old abandoned cottage, half rotten away by time and rain, offering little enough in way of shield against the elements. It did however offer cover from prying eyes, which was Erik’s main concern, so it would do for the while. They’d be moving on soon enough, as was their fashion; they seldom lingered more than four days at a spot. 

The cottage did boast one low table—thought to call it a table was to be generous, as it was no more than several wooden boards nailed together and balanced precariously atop four vaguely similar stones—and a single, hard wooden cot that acted as alternative table, bench, or bed. 

Erik tossed the shirt carelessly on the bench and went to rummage in his saddlebags for a moment before, to Charles’ surprise, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and his small glass. 

“Care for a drink?” he asked casually as he poured himself a measure and downed it in one swallow. Not very good whiskey, then, or else Erik would take the time to savor it. 

“Why, yes,” Charles admitted, feeling like something odd was happening here, but as though he could not quite figure it out. He moved closer to the low table to grip the bottle, but Erik didn’t surrender it, and instead poured to shot himself and handed it to Charles, fingers brushing. Something like lightning erupted from the touch and traveled, light-fast, to Charles’ chest, where it constricted the muscles around his lungs making his breath catch. 

Erik moved to sit the bottle on the table, without stepping back. His damp shoulder brushed along Charles’ shirt-covered arm, raising goosebumps beneath the fine cotton. Charles swallowed the whiskey with some effort and was startled at how strong the stuff was. Almost raw. Very poor quality. He had to cough to clear his throat, eyes watering, and it took him a moment to notice Erik had not moved and was standing indecently close. He had to clear his throat again. 

The Irishman loomed over him, looking thoughtful and contemplative. His skin was still damp with sweat, the walk not having been enough to dry it, and perspiration beaded just at the angle of his sharp, masculine jaw, down the groove of muscle on the side of his throat towards his clavicles. Charles’ throat was very dry. He leaned down hastily to pick up the bottle. His shoulder brushed against Erik’s chest; in the charged silence of the cottage, the sound of fabric dragging on skin was loud and lewd. Erik didn’t move. 

When Charles straightened and found that his hands were shaking, the Irishman wrapped a big hand around his wrist holding the glass and took he bottle from him, pouring the shot himself. 

“You watch me,” he murmured, eyes and voice colorless. He exhibited no emotion, yet when his eyes snapped up to Charles, they were fierce and hot. “Do ye want me?”

Charles’s breath stuttered in his throat. 

Erik swallowed the whiskey and poured a third glass, which this time he offered to Charles. 

“The eloquent scholar, speechless,” he mocked, quirking a long ginger brow. 

Charles frowned and took the glass, downing it in one go. He flinched when Erik’s hand found his throat, fingertips just grazing his Adam’s apple. He could smell Erik, sweat and grass and that strange, arousing male musk, sharp and enticing. 

“Are you not Catholic?” Charles managed. 

Erik gave him a tolerant look. “I’m a murderer, a thief, I have a bloody temper, I’m proud as the eagle’s flight and when I don’t have to run for my life, I lay lazy in the sun. I hardly doubt one more sin will sink me any further, Séarlas.” 

Erik pronounced Charles name in an odd, fascinating way—he curled his tongue around it and changed it, made it his own. He’d spelled it for Charles once, this Irish version of Charles—Séarlas, was Erik’s favorite, thought the highwaymen liked to make a game of calling Charles different variations of his name in Celtic, presumably to see which one fit best. Calbhach, Cathaoir, Cearbhall, Somhairle. Toiríolach was certainly Charles’ own favorite, but Séarlas—that was special. Only Erik called him that. 

“Is this not the ultimate sin, though?” Charles asked dubiously. 

Erik looked at him for a long quiet moment. He leaned imperceptibly closer, eyes like thunder. “He made me in His shape.”

And abruptly he leaned all the way and was kissing Charles, nothing like gentle, nowhere near slow—it was violent and demanding and possessive, like he was devouring Charles whole, body and soul. Then just as abruptly the kiss was done, and he was moving away to pour another glass.

He sat down on the bench, leaning indelicately back against the wall, legs spread, noticeable erection covered by his kilt. 

He took a sip form his glass, this time slowly, rolling in the liquor in his mouth. His eyes went up and down Charles’ body, appraising and dark. 

“Shall we be lovers, then?” he asked quite courteously, as though they were discussing a stroll in the park. “Or are ye scared?” he put so much emphasis on the last word that it sounded almost like ‘scairt’.

Charles moved forward out of his own volition, to stand in front of him. One more step and he’d be between his legs. 

Erik stared at him, defiant, over the curve of his own cheek, his long throat bared, still flushed. A drop of sweat was rolling between his pectoral muscles, down, down, down. Charles’ eyes fell with it, like pulled by gravity, down across the flats and angles of Erik’s muscled stomach, down to the waist of the kilt. 

Charles exhaled and when he inhaled the air caught and dragged on his nostrils, charged, like the ozone aftermath of lightning. His blood felt hot, rich with spices like the whisky in Erik’s hand. Erik’s lashes were surprisingly long, an odd copper color and the birth and gold-blond at the tips. His lids had fallen heavy and his eyes were dark. 

Erik smiled, the long sensual line of his mouth quirking up. 

“Us barbarians,” he murmured, the remembered words of a time gone by when Charles had been little more than what he looked like—an English nobleman, a scholar and a gentleman, rich with words pulled out of books but unexposed to the world. 

The Irishman shifted, and Charles inhaled sharply when the inside of Erik’s thigh dragged along the outside of his own, boot raising up to rest on the small table behind Charles, the heavy fabric of his kilt falling down his upraised thigh to pool like green-black liquid at the joint of hip and thigh. Charles reached with his hand to set his hand atop that knee, and then slid it down the outside of that thigh to the place where it met the buttock, and as he did he caught Erik’s mouth in another searing kiss, slower now that he was in control, though no less deeper. 

Erik straightened to better access his mouth, inhaling deeply through his nostrils, a loud sound in the cottage. Charles let his hand slid around the top of Erik’s thigh to his groin under the kilt and found his cock, hard and hot. Erik grunted, free hand coming around to grasp the fabric of Charles’ shirt at his back. Charles hummed and folded down to his knees, relishing the sharp intake of breath though Erik’s lips as the Irishman fell back against the wall, belly muscles contracting. Charles gathered in his fingers the folds of the kilt and moved it delicately away from Erik’s prick, baring it so he could take it in his mouth. Erik muttered a Celtic curse and tangled his fingers in Charles’ hair, almost tight enough to hurt. The glass was abandoned on the bench, half-full. 

Erik’s other hand fisted in Charles shirt and dragged it up his back until Charles was obliged to straighten so he could pull it all the way off and toss it away. Erik wrapped a hand around his jaw then, and kissed him again, deep and rough, as he dexterously undid the fastenings of his doeskin breeches. His large hand wrapped around Charles’ cock and the Englishman couldn’t but thrust at the sensation, calluses scratching over delicate, thin skin. 

The Irishman stroked him slowly, but with considerable pressure, just shy of painful. Though he seemed unhurried, he was clearly determined that he should keep control of their encounter, and any attempt bon Charles’ part to gain leverage enough to exert action was met with a warning grunt and a tug at his plaited hair. 

There was no chance that Charles could hope to outmaneuver Erik, him being much taller and heavier, a construct of heavy bone and well-exercised muscle, even in the event that he should so desire it—which in any case, he did not. So the Eight Earl of Westchester went limp instead, surrendering, clinging to Erik’s shoulder for dear life. He could feel the tensing and shifting of muscles beneath his hand as Erik fisted his cock, firm and sure of his movements. Erik hummed at last in approval, and kissed him with lips twisted up into a smile. 

He shifted and dropped out of the bench, legs spreading in a wide crouch around Charles’ stuttering hips, so their cocks lined up together for friction. His hand came around to Charles’ back and pulled him close, bare chests crushed together sticking with sweat, the coarse tartan pooled between them. Charles managed to slid an arm down Erik’s strong thigh to find a buttock and grope it, feeling the heady tension of him thrusting. 

Erik growled and moved away, grasping Charles’ shoulders to make him turn away and face the low table. Charles braced his hands against the rough wood, gasping shallowly with excitement as Erik pressed up against his back, long erection thrusting into the cleft of his arse, still crouching for better leverage. Charles dropped his right hand to Erik’s right knee, felt it move with the fluid motion of his thrusts, and felt almost weak with arousal, at the same time he felt as though his body had caught fire and he was burning to a crisp. 

This continued for a moment, sweat building between Erik’s chest and Charles’ back, the Irishman’s breath harsh and hot against the side of Charles’ neck. The hair at the nape of Charles’ neck was soaked with sweat and a drop rolled down his vertebrae, sensual and lazy. Erik licked it up, a long flat lick which he then dragged across to Charles’ jaw, mouthing at the cleanly shaved skin. Charles was fastidious about shaving, even in the wilderness, which amused Erik to no end, although he appeared to be appreciating it now. 

Abruptly, Erik dropped his knees to the ground and pressed a hand against Charles’ back, shoving him down against the table. Lazily, he leaned forward to drag his tongue along the top of Charles’ right shoulder, gathering the folds of his kilt up and out of the way, draping them over Charles’ ass and covering them. He felt Erik shift his weight slightly to free his left hand, and felt a hot stab of arousal when he realized he was sucking on his own fingers. 

The first slick probing was uncomfortable and odd, like every time Charles had done this—he didn’t do it often and hadn’t done it in years, and was out of practice and tense. It was difficult to be a sodomite while moving in the higher circles of London society, where being discovered meant swift trial and hanging. And to let someone control him so, to own him—he didn’t trust any man deeply enough to allow that. 

This however—this didn’t seem to be going any further than he had gone already. Erik already owned him, in any case. 

“Séarlas,” he said quietly against Charles’ ear, right hand tenderly brushing Charles’ hair away from his face, turning to head so he could glimpse his heavy-lidded eyes. “Speak up now if ye want me to stop.”

Charles sighed shakily. “No, please—go on.”

Erik kissed his cheek, and then straightened, sliding a hand through the sweat at Charles’ spine to press against the back of his neck and keep him pinned to the table, and—

The initial thrust hurt, and Charles hissed, stiffening. Erik’s hand tightened warningly on the back of his neck, and the Irishman held himself perfectly still. 

“You can take it, Séarlas,” he murmured, soothing and firm, confident that Charles _could_.

Charles dragged in a labored breath and closed his eyes, working on relaxing his muscles one at a time. It would get better, he knew—he remembered, at first the fear and the pain and then the blinding brilliance of pleasure, the heady motion of two bodies linked together. He imagined Erik poised above him, moving, strong back wet and painted gold with sunlight, hair wild like strands of gold. 

Erik made a sound of pleased approval when he began to relax, his free hand stroking up and down Charles’ flank even as he kept him pinned to the table, and moved slowly until his hips were flush with Charles’ buttocks. Charles gasped with the feeling, trapped and full, trembling, but Erik dipped down again to mouth at his shoulder, a heavy hot presence all along his back, anchoring him to his body. 

All the rest was a blur, movement and pressure and friction, the pain fading away into the breathtaking pleasure. The only things that existed were Erik’s body behind, above and inside his, his breathing on the tops of hi back, neck and shoulders, the occasional openmouthed kiss. The hard wood beneath his chest and cheek and the edge of the table against his hips, the head of his cock brushing against nothing, aching and wet. 

Erik slid a hand beneath his stomach and pulled him up against his chest, short blunt nails scratching across his nipple. Charles gasped, overwhelmed and overheated, skin prickling. His groin ached, dull and insistent. Erik mumbled something inn Celtic and wrapped his hand around Charles’ erection, making him arch, belly muscles clenching. 

“Let it go, _a mhuirnín_ ,” Erik whispered in his ear, hand stroking his balls before returning to his erection, pulling slowly now, but just as firmly. 

Charles’ belly contracted. He slammed his hands against the table, crying out, head hanging. Sweat dripped down onto the wood, and then long white splashes of seed, and Charles’ vision almost went completely white, sound and breathe evading him entirely. He felt, vague and alien, the way his elbows hit the table when his arms gave you. Erik arched over him, burying his nose behind his ear, panting loudly, and finally tensed, crushing Charles to himself almost hard enough to hurt and prevent breath. 

His knees gave way and he sat on his heels, dragging Charles down with him, murmuring softly in Celtic as he kissed the side of his neck, oddly tender. Charles let his had fall back over the Irishman’s shoulder, struggling to fill his lungs through the damp heat of their bodies pressed together. The skin of his chest and neck felt hot enough to peel off his flesh. 

It took long moments before Erik carefully shifted, the arm around Charles’ chest holding him close as he lowered them gently to their sides on the hard dirt, and then slowly drew out, squeezing Charles’ thigh when he made a sound of discomfort. Once disconnected, he Irishman flopped on his back on the ground, exhaling harshly. 

His left arm was left stretched beneath Charles’ neck, and he bent it at the elbow, pulling with his shoulder to make Charles turn toward him until his body stretched, heavy and limp, along his side. 

Charles closed his eyes against the skin of Erik’s shoulder and dozed, lazy, for a long moment. 

The sound of a bird call outside the cottage woke him sometime later, the sun still beating down on them, preventing the sweat from cooling and drying on their skins. Where they pressed together, they stuck. Charles sighed and rolled away, uncomfortably hot. Erik hummed and allowed it, though his hand never fell away from Charles’ skin. The scholar sat up, blinking sleepily. 

He looked down and to the side, where Erik sprawled like a lazy jungle cat, legs spread unselfconsciously, kilt draped haphazardly over thigh and stomach so it only just covered his groin. Tentatively, he reached out and pressed a palm flat on Erik’s hard stomach, reveling in the right to touch. Erik’s eyes were closed, but his mouth quirked up complacently. He looked like nothing but a sated lion. 

Charles wanted to revel in the moment, but something was nagging at him. 

“Will they not hate you for being a sodomite?” he asked quietly. 

Erik lifted one shoulder in a vague shrug. “Aye, perhaps,” he paused, and his smile turned mocking. “But they will no turn on me for sodomizing an Englishman.” 

Charles gaped at him, speechless.

“After all,” Erik slit an eye open, dark and stormy blue in the shadow of his lashes. “God only knows what manner of depravities you lot get up to in London.” 

The Englishman squawked indignantly. “Depravities! I will have you know—“

But Erik’s chest was shaking, and Charles realized crossly that the man was laughing at him. He huffed and slapped his stomach with the back of his hand, sharp and stinging. 

“Ass,” he said, without rancor. 

Erik laughed out loud, curling on his side around Charles, shaking with the force of it. 

“You believed me, ye naïve little bastard!”

Charles made to shrug him off, but Erik moved swiftly, gripping his jaw and dragging him down into a deep kiss. He shifted his weight, pressing Charles don on the floor and curving over him, tapping his long fingers along his throat. When he broke the kiss he moved away and shook his head, loosened copper hair a halo around him. 

“Oftentimes I wonder if you’re not a few farthings short of a pound, _mo chroí_.”

“You are a beast,” said Charles sullenly. 

“Aye,” Erik nodded amiably. “Not that you were complaining, mind,” he added mildly, and without a hint of modesty grabbed Charles’ hand and guided it below his kilt to his soft cock. Charles made a rude sound and struggled to get away, though it only made the highwayman laugh louder. 

Finally Erik resorted to brute strength, and in one fluid motion sat astride Charles’ thighs, kilt shockingly dark against the pale skin of Charles’ belly. He pressed the rough palms of his hands against Charles’ nipples and leaned down to kiss him, leisurely and sensual. 

Charles sighed. “You really do believe they won’t kill us in our sleep, then?”

“Well, no,” Erik replied, leaning on an elbow above him. “They’d stab me in the heart, rather. You, though—I should expect you’ll get hanged. A sodomite _and_ an Englishman? No peaceful death for you, fiend.” 

“Oh, you are horrible.”

Erik laughed. He brushed the hair away from Charles’ forehead, his big strong hand unexpectedly gentle. 

“No harm will come to us from me men, Séarlas, no need to look over yer shoulder. And we aren’t going to Hell, either.”

“How do you know that?” Charles asked dubiously. 

“You grew up hearing this?” Erik asked. 

Charles nodded. 

“It’s clear, then,” the highwayman said patiently. “You heard it from Englishmen, clearly it _must_ be folly.”

Charles shoved at his shoulders, growling, and Erik let him push him off, laughing all the way.


End file.
